


Just Trying To Tie My Shoes

by brynnmck



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-31
Updated: 2007-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Ray knows that Huey dropped him off outside his building, but he doesn't really remember how he got here, specifically, standing in the kitchen and staring into the refrigerator like it's gonna fix something, like it's a time machine and Ray can step into it and go back and make it all not true.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Trying To Tie My Shoes

**Author's Note:**

> From [](http://brooklinegirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**brooklinegirl**](http://brooklinegirl.livejournal.com/)'s excellent prompt, "dirty." Thanks to [](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/profile)[**sdwolfpup**](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/) for cheerleading and guidance and [](http://china-shop.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://china-shop.livejournal.com/)**china_shop** for auditing a snippet for excessive fangirling. :) Unbetaed otherwise, because, wow, 24 hours is not a very long time! Title from the Headstones' "Million Days in May."

Ray knows that Huey dropped him off outside his building, but he doesn't really remember how he got here, specifically, standing in the kitchen and staring into the refrigerator like it's gonna fix something, like it's a time machine and Ray can step into it and go back and make it all not true.

Paperwork. He went in on a Saturday because he's always behind on his fucking paperwork. It was supposed to be _boring_ , not—

_"The girl, Detective Kowalski—Theresa O'Malley. We think we found her. Would you mind taking a look?"_

Ray shudders.

 _Shower_ , he thinks, he needs a shower, and it's not like he's never seen a dead body before, but Jesus, she was eight years old, just a _kid_ , and yeah, Vecchio talked him into that fancy showerhead, but Ray's pretty sure even ten massage settings aren't gonna be able to break inside his chest and wash the sick, sinking feeling out of him.

So he just keeps standing there, staring, he doesn't know how long, until he hears the apartment door open behind him.

"Hey." Vecchio's voice sounds like it's a million miles away. "You're home."

Ray wants to answer, but everything's in slow motion. Vecchio, though, is very good at holding up both ends of a conversation. "I know," he continues, "because I'm the only one who ever goes to the grocery store around here, that there can't possibly be that many things to choose from in there." He's right over Ray's shoulder now, one hand snaking under Ray's arm to nudge at the refrigerator door. "Hey. Stanley. In or out—this wasn't what I meant when I said maybe we could get air conditioning."

Ray blinks, lets go of the door so that Vecchio can push it shut. He forces his feet to shift, and when he turns, Vecchio's looking at him with that sort of amused-baffled look he seems to save especially for Ray. He's wearing jeans and one of Ray's old Cubs t-shirts, which is weird enough, and he's wiping his hands on a towel. He's got grease smudges on his chin, his forearms, his neck, and sweat at his temples. Ray swallows.

"What happened to you?" he asks.

"What? Oh." Vecchio looks down, scrubs harder at a spot between his thumb and forefinger. "Thought since you were working, I'd give the GTO a little tune-up." He smiles, teasing. "She's a lady, Kowalski, you gotta treat her like one."

 _My car, I know how to treat her_ , Ray thinks automatically, and then _don't touch my stuff_ , which is pretty stupid because Vecchio's had his hands all over stuff that's a hell of a lot more personal than Ray's _car_ , and Vecchio keeps looking at him and he's spent his free Saturday tuning up the Goat and Theresa O'Malley is dead and something desperate surges up in Ray's chest so that he just reaches out and _grabs_ , shoves Vecchio up against the refrigerator and crushes Vecchio's mouth with his.

It's perfect for a long string of seconds, Vecchio surprised but ready, he's always ready, and Ray can practically feel his brain cells fizzling and popping. He presses closer, hungrier, but Vecchio makes a sort of agonized noise and puts a hand on each of Ray's shoulders, pulls his mouth away.

"Hey, hey, hey." He eases Ray back, and Ray tries to breathe; Vecchio's eyes are dark green with concern and the far-off promise of violence, _Tell me who hurt you so that I can go fuck them up_. Ray's fingers tighten again, crushing the soft fabric of Vecchio's shirt. _"Che cosa fa?"_ Vecchio asks gently, like Ray's seen him do sometimes with his family, and that's it, Ray just wants to put his head on Vecchio's shoulder and bawl like a girl.

Vecchio'd let him, too, and never say a word about it later—for a guy who talks so much, Vecchio has an uncanny knack for knowing when to shut up—but Ray's trying to hold on, here, so he settles for leaning forward, resting his forehead against the cool stainless steel of the fridge. "Found the O'Malley kid today," he mumbles, his nose pressed to the spot behind Vecchio's ear. _Theresa O'Malley,_ he can hear the coroner saying. _Eight years old. Found beaten and—_

Vecchio's breath rushes out of him. "Aw, _shit_ ," he says quietly. After a couple of seconds, Ray feels Vecchio's arm move, feels his hand on the back of Ray's neck, thumb stroking soft and steady through the short hair there. It feels prickly-weird, but good, sending shivers down Ray's spine. "Dead?" Vecchio asks then, quick, like pulling off a band-aid.

Ray nods. "ID'd the body myself." He squeezes his eyes shut against the image: pale skin, bruises, small skinny arms. _Goddammit._

 _"Shit,"_ Vecchio repeats. "Geez, Kowalski, you shoulda called."

Ray huffs out a laugh. "And said what? 'Hey, Vecchio, there's a dead girl down here, wanna come see?'"

"'Course not, smart guy." Vecchio whaps him lightly on the neck, then goes back to the rubbing. "How about, 'Hey, seeing as you're my partner and all, why don't you come down here and give me a hand with this case we're both working?'"

"Kid's dead, Vecchio," Ray insists. He figures if he keeps saying it enough, eventually he's gonna stop wanting to puke. "Nothing you coulda done."

Vecchio shifts his head enough to nudge Ray's a little. "Not for _her_ , you moron."

And that, right there, is the thing about Vecchio. Months, they've been doing this thing—fucking, dating, whatever, somewhere between first kiss and china patterns—and living together for not a whole lot less time than that, and Ray's still getting used to it, Vecchio being in his space, pushing him, _giving_ stuff even when Ray doesn't ask for it. And yeah, Vecchio is on his case all the time, about towels on the floor and dishes in the sink and Ray's car and Ray's clothes and Ray's hair—and Ray gives just as good as he gets, because towels are made to get wet and Vecchio's clothes get wrinkled if you look at 'em funny and does Vecchio _really_ want to get into a conversation about hair—but there's also this, Vecchio's shoulder solid against Ray's, Vecchio's fingers soothing on Ray's skin, Vecchio saying _you should have called, I could have helped._ It takes some getting used to.

Ray pushes his nose a little harder against Vecchio's neck, lets his hands slide down to rest on Vecchio's hips. " _You're_ the moron," he murmurs. Vecchio smells good, like sweat and engine oil and dirt from the garage. Clean dirt, honest dirt ( _not like dirt caked under small fingernails, smeared across cold cheeks_ ), and Ray opens his mouth to taste it, feeling Vecchio's pulse under his tongue. Vecchio makes a sound low in his throat, arches his neck.

"Kowalski," he half-groans.

Ray smiles, the first time he's smiled in hours. "Yeah, Vecchio?" He guesses other people might think it's weird, him and Vecchio calling each other by their last names even in bed, but no one says his name like Vecchio does, and he likes the feel of Vecchio's name in his own mouth, likes the way Vecchio's eyes light when Ray says it just right, rolling it slow around his tongue. He licks his way up the long tendon in Vecchio's neck, bites his earlobe just this side of too hard. He can feel his own heart starting to pound ( _good blood in, bad blood out_ ), his head going fuzzy, good clean-dirty Vecchio smells everywhere, filling him up, and he breathes deep. Yeah. This is good. This is what he needs.

Vecchio knows, too, because he grabs Ray's face in his hands, pulls their mouths together for a long, breathless kiss. Ray lets himself fall into it, long fingers along his jaw, sweet hot tongue in his mouth, and when Vecchio finally tears himself away, Ray finds that Vecchio's switched positions on him. Ray's pressed up against the refrigerator now, cold against his sweaty back while Vecchio kisses his way down Ray's chest and leaves a damp trail on his t-shirt. Then Vecchio's on his knees, fingers busy at the button of Ray's khakis-- _khakis_ , he thinks, sort of crazily, _not slacks, Vecchio, I may occasionally_ slack _, but I do not_ wear _slacks_ , one of a hundred old arguments—and then Ray's _khakis_ are around his knees, and his boxers, too, and Vecchio's mouth is on him and Ray forgets the argument, forgets the not-paperwork, forgets possibly everything he's ever known as his head thunks back hard against the metal door.

Vecchio doesn't fuck around, works Ray hard and steady and so, so good. When Ray looks down, he finds Vecchio's eyes on him, open and burning clear, shining green. Vecchio's got one hand wrapped around Ray's cock, but he reaches up with the other one, and Ray stretches out unsteadily to meet him, locks their fingers together and feels the faint slick slide of grease. He squeezes hard, and Vecchio moans a little around his cock, and it's too much, it's perfect, he can't—and the world goes white for a few blissful seconds as he comes in Vecchio's mouth.

Afterwards, Vecchio stays with him, licks him clean and tucks him neatly back into his boxers. Ray gives in to his suddenly-rebellious knees and slides down the refrigerator door (taking a construction-paper picture down with him, a gift from one of Vecchio's nieces— _sorry, Andrina_ ), letting himself tip forward so that his head is resting in the curve of Vecchio's neck. He feels completely, utterly drained, but in a good way, like a glass waiting to be filled. Vecchio doesn't move, just breathes with him, in and out.

"We're gonna get this bastard," Ray says finally, muffled against the collar of Vecchio's shirt.

"Bet your ass," Vecchio answers, no hesitation. Ray smiles.

"You're all sweaty," he observes after a few more seconds of breathing.

Vecchio snorts. "Such a charmer," he says wryly.

"I'm just stating a fact, Vecchio. And you, as a matter of fact, are sweaty."

"OK, so I'm sweaty. Whose fault is that?"

"And greasy," Ray continues. He leans back, enough so that Vecchio can see his grin.

Vecchio grins back, relaxed now, despite the fact that Ray can see he's still hard in his jeans. "And greasy," he agrees.

"OK, then. Guess we'd better get you cleaned up." Ray struggles to his feet, holds out a hand to help Vecchio up. "C'mon," he says. "We got ten massage settings, and like one billionth of a hot water tank. Think we can get through 'em all?"

Vecchio shrugs. "Well, like Ma always says, if it's worth doing, it's worth doing right."

"Vecchio, how many times do I gotta ask you—please do _not_ talk about your mother at times like this," Ray groans, and Vecchio laughs as Ray tugs him toward the bathroom.  



End file.
